The Weight of the Dead
by the ticking clock
Summary: After the events of Moria, Aragorn takes time in Lothlorien to console the members of the Fellowship. Cowritten with Merdan.


Time seemed to slow as soon as they had passed into Galadriel's protection. The years, hours, minutes meant nothing to the Elves in their endless existence. When, at last, the day seemed to drift into cool twilight hours, Aragorn dared at last to breathe again. For the moment, the urgency of the quest seemed soothed, the fire in his veins cooled by Elven patience and the stillness of Lothlorien. The world might go to pieces beyond the golden borders and he never would have known, so undisturbed was the calm eternity of Galadriel's Realm.

In those cool, damp moments among the trees, Aragorn at last dared to kneel and wash the blood and grime from his battle-stained hands, to clean the filth from his haggard face. Seeking absolution in the waters. He watched with cautious, steady eyes as bedrolls were passed around and unrolled between the roots and hungry bellies were sated with food and drink.

Legolas, crouched amongst the cluster of Hobbits with his fluted pitcher of clear, sweet water, caught the Dunadan's eye in silent question. The Elf Prince's eyebrows knit and he cocked his golden head with a faint scowl. _Are you well_?

The storm cloud eyes of kings long past held Legolas's gaze for a long and steady moment - a small eternity within the timelessness of Lothlorien's borders - and Aragorn nodded once, curt and firm. _I am not hurt._

Blue Silvan eyes spoke volumes as Legolas's lips thinned. _That isn't what I meant, Ranger._

Aragorn waved him off with the smallest twist of his hand. He did not wish to dwell on the heaviness in his heart and the crushing threat that bunched between his shoulder blades. His whole body ached with the echo of movement-muscles taunt and tensed to run, his lungs screaming and hollow in his chest, the burn harsh with each breath. He needed to focus on something other than his worries, or the weight of Gandalf's death would crush him.

_Lead them on, Aragorn. Do as I say. _

His old friend's last command stung in the back of his throat. _Lead them on. _

Standing quickly, Aragorn pushed past Legolas's reaching hand, and went to Frodo. The Ringbearer had barely said a word during their mad race from Moria, and now he sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. Sam, ever the loyal gardner, sat beside him, hand on his shoulder, speaking in low, soothing tones. Frodo appeared not to hear.

"Frodo," Aragorn called softly, and extended a hand. "Walk with me?"

Slowly, the hobbit rose and half stumbled, half stepped towards him. Aragorn caught his arm, steadying him. Gently, he guided Frodo away from the others questioning eyes.

The hobbit followed him wordlessly and without question. While Frodo was certainly not the most inquisitive of the fellowship (that honor went to Pippin) he was quick to question Aragorn's actions on several occasions. It was one of the things Aragorn respected most about the hobbit, his ability to challenge authority. His silence now, was unnerving.

Gently, Aragorn crouched beside the hobbit, guiding him down with a gentle pull at his sleeve. "How do you feel?" He asked, the healer in him assessing Frodo's sweat-shined pallor, faltering breathing and shaking hands. Shock.

Frodo's eyes were blue and raw and furious. "How do you think?" Exhaustion made his voice sharp. He looked away as soon as the words left his lips,guilty, but Aragorn saw in the stubborn lock of his jaw that Frodo was not going to apologize. He smiled.

"I know how heavy this is," Aragorn said quietly, making a vague gesture that encompassed the ring, grief, Lothlorien, the world, "but I promise the only way to make it lighter is to continue on." Putting an arm around the young hobbit's shaking shoulders, Aragorn tucked Frodo against his side. The hobbit shuddered, twisting so his head was pressed against the Ranger's chest. Aragorn was reminded of Weathertop, the shudder of Frodo's breaths against his neck as they ran, the terror that pounded like a sickness as he struggled to keep the others from falling apart while saving Frodo's life.

Gently, Aragorn rested his cheek against the hobbit's curls. They said nothing for a long time. The man sat with Frodo wrapped in the warmth of his cloak, the hobbit's soft sobs muted in the wild strength of the elves lament.

Aragorn closed his eyes and listened to the song, humming a soft verse of his own. It might have been his exhausted mind playing tricks on him, but he thought he heard Frodo join the song, the hobbit's voice low and sweet and muffled against the Ranger's cloak.

"All will be well again, Frodo." The Dunadan's voice felt hoarse, tight within his throat and scraped from his chest. "One day all will be well."

"How can you be sure?"

Aragorn took the hobbit by his shoulders and held him firm. Frodo's wide, mournful eyes watched him silently, begging for something - anything that he might hold on to. The Dunadan's words were simple. "I have faith." _In all but myself..._

Frodo nodded, seeming to draw deep within himself as he considered this. "Then I will hold faith," the hobbit whispered at long last. "It's what Gandalf would want."

"Mister Frodo?" Sam's brash tones sounded, shattering the brief peace, and the hobbit himself came stumbling over tree roots in the twilight. "Mister Frodo," he stopped short at the sight of Ranger and Halfling. The gardener's lips trembled, his words coming in a stammer. "You should come and eat somethin' now, Mister Frodo," Sam admonished gently. "You need to be keepin' up your strength now more'n ever." The hobbit's round cheeks flushed scarlet and he dropped his gaze.

Aragorn felt his face soften, offering the Halflings a gentle smile. "Sam is right, Frodo," he insisted, giving the Ringbearer a nudge. "Go, rest. Find some peace tonight to soothe your mind." He watched them go, feeling the ancient, weary ache deep in his bones. "Sam?"

The gardener paused. "Aye?"

"How do you fare?" Aragorn asked with a tilt of his ragged head. "You have been through much these past days."

Sam shrugged his broad, round shoulders. "I'm more worried about Mister Frodo than anythin', if I may be sayin'." He leaned in close, bright eyes darting. "It's too much for 'im, Strider. The Ring, the quest - he's hurtin' but he won't say so."

"I know, Sam," Aragorn sighed. "I know." He leaned his sore shoulders against the cool, silver bark of the nearest tree. "But what of you, Sam? This can be no easier on you - we have asked much."

Again, Sam shrugged and his full face flushed. "It ain't no matter t'all, really. I mean, I worry about Mister Frodo, and it's a horrible hurt to be losin' Gandalf like as we did, an' I'm sore tired and bruising - but I'm all right, honest."

Aragorn doubted that, but he knew better than to push when the two hobbits were barely holding themselves together. Frodo needed someone he trusted to be strong, and there was no better person than Sam. Leaving the Ringbearer and his gardner with a gentle pat on the shoulder, Aragorn went to Merry and Pippin.

* * *

><p>The cousins had banded together through their trek to Lothlorien, barely leaving each other's side, but always there to make a light remark that would earn a smile from Frodo. Now, they were sitting, side by side, heads bent close together. Pippin was half asleep, his eyes glazed and drifting closed, head lolling against Merry's shoulder. Softly, Aragorn knelt beside Merry and whispered, "How are you?"<p>

The hobbit shrugged, jerking his chin towards Pippin. "Tired, mostly, Strider."

"Have you eaten?"

Merry nodded. "A little. I don't feel much like-"

Aragorn knew what he meant. There was a hollowness in his own stomach, and he doubted any food would stay down. Still, he knew from experience that he could survive on very little food. The hobbits on the other hand, while they had faced many hardships over the past weeks, were used to a more regimented meal plan. "I understand," he said, gently. "But it is important to keep up your strength."

Merry looked up at him with eyes that were large and childlike and haunted. "I don't know how much strength I have at the moment."

Smiling, Aragorn laid a gentle hand on the hobbit's head. "Rest, Meriadoc," he said, half standing to hand the hobbit a blanket. He draped it over Pippin's shoulder as well, tucking the edges under Pippin's right shoulder. "You have done well."

Merry offered him a small smile. "As of you, Strider. Gandalf would be proud."

Aragorn's throat tightened. He pressed his hand to his heart with solemn eyes, backing away from the hobbits before the knife could twist any deeper into his heart. _I am not strong enough to lead them._

Then Legolas's long, light hand was on his arm and the warmth of it seemed to pass through all of Aragorn's layers and the leather of his bracer. The Elf Prince's eyes were gentle and weary as he squeezed Aragorn's wrist lightly. "You are far stronger than you know, my friend," Legolas murmured, leaning in close to the Dunadan's ear. "The blood of kings may run in your veins, but the greatness of your heart is what will lead us to victory in the end."

And then Legolas was gone like mist among the trees and the songs of the Elves seemed to rise up in a mourning chorus.

Aragorn cast off a shiver, closing his eyes to feel Gandalf's lament in his bones, vibrating on the air with so many ghosts. He felt the pulse of blood in his neck, hammering in the tendons of his wrists - Isildur's great weakness.

"The noise of these Elves is enough to drive a man mad," Gimli grumbled, tossing and turning upon his bedroll. "If that Elf Witch don't take us first."

"_Gimli_," Aragorn's voice was quick and sharp, cutting through the twilight. The dwarf's grunts and mutters grated on the last of his raw and fraying nerves. "You have been more than unkind tonight, I will hear no more of these disparaging words from you now."

The dwarf grunted and rumbled, blowing a gust of air out between his lips. "You're right, laddie. Much as I dislike them, the Lady and her people have borne us nothing but kindness tonight, and gratitude should be served where gratitude is earned." Gimli rolled himself upright, a ball of armor and russet hair among the thick, white roots, scowling widely as he reached for the handle of his axe - still crusted and drying with blackened, bitter orc blood. "The darkness of Moira weighs heavy on my mind," he set about polishing the axe clean, running his rag over the runes and decorative channels. "To think of the end my cousin met, to find them strewn with such disrespect among their once great and hallowed halls. And to lose Gandalf to such a demon as what was awoken there," the dwarf shook his hairy head. "There has been much loss."

Aragorn braced his aching back against the roots, settling his elbows on his weary knees as he sat. "Indeed, I am sorry to hear of Balin's end - there were many cruel surprises that awaited us in Moira."

"Aye." Gimli sighed, tipping back his head. "Would it have been any better to have taken a different route? Caradhras might have been the death of us all - and would the road to Gondor have been much better? So close to Isengard, we risked all sorts of evil threats." He moved on to the smaller axe, still hooked into the loops of his belt and stained with ichor. "There was naught we might have done, it would seem, to change the course of things."

"Perhaps." Aragorn twisted the ring that had grown tight and grimy around his finger. _Isildur's Heir has failed. _"Perhaps not."

Gimli waved a weary hand, cleaning away the last of the goblin blood. "It doesn't do us any good to dwell on it now, laddie. What's done is done."

Aragorn managed the ghost of a smile. Despite the dwarf's grumblings, Gimli had a good heart. "Thank you," he said honestly.

The dwarf nodded, tilting his head back. "Always happy to help, laddie."

* * *

><p>Aragorn found Boromir away from the others.<p>

The other man had always kept to himself, occasionally playing swords with the hobbits or smoking pipe weed with Gimli, but for the most part he kept his company in hungry, sullen silence.

Since Gandalf's fall, Boromir had been a steadfast friend, and Aragorn's earlier suspicions had been quelled. Boromir sat now, his forehead cradled in his hands.

"You should take some rest," Aragorn said, stepping up beside him. "These borders are well protected."

Boromir's voice is harsh, "I will find no rest here."

Sighing, Aragorn sat beside him. He sensed that Boromir needed to speak, and since the other members of the fellowship had not been forthcoming, Aragorn owed it to him to listen.

They talked at length about Gondor, white towers, of finding hope. Overall Aragorn felt that the conversation was more beneficial for Boromir than for himself, but talking was a welcome distraction from his own pain. Eventually, Aragorn stood, biding Boromir farewell. His bones ached and for the space of several breaths, darkness danced along the edges of his vision. Stumbling, he stretched out a hand, meaning to grasp a tree, the wall of the outcropping, anything. His breaths sawed in and out of his lungs, harsh and raw and terrifyingly quick.

"Aragorn?" Boromir. Concerned.

A steady hand closed about his wrist, firm and gentle. Another slipped just under his elbow-a steady support. "Come," Legolas said softly.

Aragorn did not have the breath or the energy to protest. He allowed himself to be lead a good distance away from the rest of the fellowship, but still within eyesight. Legolas's hands slipped from his wrist, to his shoulders. "Breathe," the elf said, the word more command than request. "Look at me, look at me," Legolas gave his shoulders a gentle shake.

Slowly, Aragorn raised his eyes to his friend's Legolas's was all sharp edges-strong jawline, tipped ears, sharp eyes. He was familiar and strong. "There," the elf whispered, releasing Aragorn's shoulders he took a step back. "There you are, Estel."

_Estel. _

The name was sweet and sharp on Aragorn's tongue. His eyes stung. Shaking his head, he leaned against the trunk of a tree, the dizzying glory of Lothlorien's stars and the shadows of trees spinning above his head.

"How are you?"

A wry smile. Ever his protector, Legolas. At the Council of Elrond, he'd leapt to his defense, and now, he was still trying to be of service. "I thought you already asked me, Legolas."

The elf sighed. "I want to hear your true answer, human." the words could have been sharp, but on Legolas's tongue, they were teasing. "I need to know that you are well."

Aragorn blew out a breath, raking a hand through his dirty hair. "I am well. You need not trouble yourself with me, my friend." He managed a small and painful smile, ignoring the pain in his bones and lodged in his heart. "You fare well under these stars once again, Legolas, and yet I still can see the hurt behind your eyes." He took the Elf's strong hand in his own, feeling the firm tendons and sturdy bones. "Share with me your troubles, let me help."

Legolas raised a fine, fair brow at the man, squeezing Aragorn's thick fingers. "_You_ are my trouble, Aragorn. I worry for your sake." He settled back into the tree's embrace. "We have suffered great and crippling blows these past days, my friend, and I am afraid for you." His blue eyes were soft and sad. "Gandalf's loss has thrust you to the forefront of our company, has placed an incredible burden upon your shoulders. Aragorn, I know you do not seek leadership and you would not see yourself fall prey to the weakness of Isildur - but _you must not despair_. There is much more strength in you than you profess to know, believe me for I have seen it." His light, strong hands came up to clasp the Dunadan's rough face in reverence. "We must not falter. In death we may find new life. In hardship we may find new strength. Tomorrow, we may find our victory."

Aragorn felt some of the pain in his joints ease, the vise that gripped his heart weakening. "When did you become so wise, my friend?"

"I have always been wise," Legolas teased. "It is only that you have not opened your ears to my wealth of wisdom."

Aragorn smiled. "Perhaps I will learn to." Pressing a hand to his eyes, he took a step past his friend. "We should return to the others."

The elf shook his head. "_I _will return to the others, Estel," Turning, he flashed him a gentle smile, "I think it will do you some good to be alone for a few minutes."

The Ranger returned the smile, tipping his head back to look up at the stars faint light through the trees. "Hannon le," he breathed.

The elf's light laughter drifted back on the breeze. "There's no need to thank me."

Aragorn spent several minutes simply breathing. His chest still ached, and the slow ease of measured, controlled breaths soothed the burn momentarily. Keeping his eyes closed, he thought of Gandalf's laugh, the warm tickle of his beard against a very young Estel's cheek, the strength of his embrace.

_Do not carry the weight of the dead. _

Releasing a long, trembling breath, Aragorn wiped his cheeks, and felt some of the tension bleed from his shoulders. _I will lead them forward, _he vowed, _if it kills me, I will see the ring destroyed. _

The elves song was fading now, ending as the night hours grew longer and darker. As the last notes slipped into silence, Aragorn returned to the Fellowship.

The hobbits were asleep, all curled hair and quiet breaths. Gimli was snoring. Boromir's eyes were closed, but Aragorn doubted the man was actually resting. Legolas stood with his back to the other man, bright eyes fixed on the hobbit's.

"How are they?" Aragorn asked, stepping up beside him.

"They are resting," the elf said softly, "as you should be."

"Legolas-"

"I know why you have not been sleeping, and I have not questioned you," Legolas's voice was low and fierce, the command of a prince, "but no harm will come to us here. You must rest. You are no use to anyone half alive."

A low laugh escaped Aragorn's lips. "Is that an order?"

The elf smiled. "Go on," he said, "Strider can return. He's slept in much wilder places than Lothlorien."

"Strider has never left," Aragorn teased, stretching out beside Merry and closing his eyes.

For a few breaths, there was silence. And then Legolas, very softly began to sing.

Aragorn allowed the lullaby to carry his mind to a time that wasn't so dark, when he could laugh freely, when Gandalf set the best fireworks, and the ring was not a dark shadow whispering in his thoughts.


End file.
